Fresh Outta Card Games
by UndercaringUnderpaidNarrator
Summary: Rena Coasta is damn happy to be here. Why? Because this is as far away from home as possible. Even though she's damn happy to be here, she doesn't exactly know where "here" is. Yu-Gi-Oh, that's a show right? She used to watch it with her best friend Simon. With nothing but a backpack of his old collectibles, Rena enters Yugi's world to help him save the world or... break it.
1. Prologue

Prologue

* * *

This is the kind of strange, miniscule story that begins, and ends, with a backpack. Not the kind of backpack that's new, with a headphone jack and a built in water bottle nozzle. It's not the kind that has a plastic decor rainbows and unicorns on the front. Or the type with wheels and a long handle.

The backpack had five owners in it's life. The first was eight year old Mary Carson, who received it as a gift from her grandmother in 1991. It was made of light denim. When Mary ran her fingers over the stitching she could feel the expert manipulation of the thread, like a wizard with a magic wand. That backpack saw every school and house in town. It experienced every playdate, every sleepover, every classroom, and eventually every boy's room. Whenever she zipped up the backpack, whether it was filled with clothes, toys, or books, Mary did it slow as to listen to the tender sound of metal heatedly pressing against its counterpart.

Mid-1993, a prize at a youth dressmaking contest inspired Mary to add her needlework to everything she could get her hands on. Shirts, pants, aprons, blankets, nothing was safe from her needle. Including the backpack, which through her skillful and careful hands received a "secret compartment" installed in it's inner linings. It was just big enough for Mary's leather bound diary.

Fifteen years and two careful repair jobs later, the backpack met it's second owner: Jasmine Dudley. Four year old daughter of James Dudley and Mary Carson. It was just one of many thrilling gifts for the four year old that Christmas morning, and instantly went to work as she shoved all the new toys possible into the main compartment. And as many mints as she could possibly hide in the "secret" compartment. For five years, Jasmine adored it. At the age of seven, she glued stickers on the handles and back. At eight she hid in the basement and ironed one a "Mickey and Minnie" patch to the front. At nine she started an intense keychain collection on the handle, zipper, anything they would connect to. The backpack was truly no longer Mary's.

By age ten Jasmine wished desperately that she hadn't done any of those things. After months of desperate pleading with Mary and James for a new bag, something more fresh and modern, she finally worked up the courage to take matters into her own hands. On the last day of fifth grade, Jasmine and the backpack finally parted ways, on the seat of a lonely corner lunch table, cozying the edges of the wall.

It was found not hours later by a janitor who was a bit down on his luck, and quickly sold it to a nearby pawn shop for a smoke. The owner was weary of purchasing items that were overly personalized, but his wife thought the bag was just darling and begged him to take it. They strung a removable tag to the handle a little too tightly asking seven dollars for it.

It only lived in the shop for about three weeks before Olivia Tinto offered a solid twenty for it. From there it would meet its third true owner, purple and blond haired Chloe Tinto, who wasn't a fan of Mickey Mouse or floral stickers. Her mother - not ready for her oldest daughter to turn sixteen - insisted it was the sweetest antique.

Chloe insisted it was the sweetest waste of space in her closet. Silently. Out of respect for her mother, the teenage girl attempted to make the backpack her own by at least adding a side pocket for her phone before deciding that it couldn't be saved.

Two long and isolated years later it was handed down to its fourth owner, ten year old Simon Tinto, who was surprised to see something with so much charm in the garbage bag with the rest of his sister's collective trash. With a brief roll of her eyes, Chloe happily offered it up to her queer little brother. As he grew, so did his interests; as his interests grew, so did the bag's contents. In his mind, the boy planned out every adventure he and the backpack would take. Although they would never make the journey, his dreams remained dormant in the safety of the stitches.

Two more years later, that backpack would exchange hands one last time. It would be Simon Tinto's last gift to a dear friend. With her, the backpack would experience an adventure that would make the rest of its life seem like a cozy prologue.


	2. Chapter One: Coke Bottles and Bear Paws

**Narrator's Note: Another story that I've had in the back for a while. Fresh Outta Cards Game, while has the potential to be it's own series that jumps different anime titles, Beautiful Items is still the main story on this profile. But I thought it was time to tackle the other stories I've mentioned on my profile. So this is just a fun little side Insert Fic. The chapters will be probably be short, going one regular chapter than a "Dairy Chapter". Regular narrative chapters start the story at the finals and work towards the end of Battle City (as of right now no Noah). The Dairy entries will start at the beginning of season two and work forward towards the finals.**

* * *

Chapter One: "Coke Bottles and Bear Paws"

* * *

There was an astute hustle through the common room of the blimp. Food, friend, and, short conversations this way and that. Some were shallow exchanges of pleasantries. "Kaiba spared no expense" and "good luck in your duel" to name a few phrases being thrown around. Then there were conversations that seemed to have minorly cryptic undertones, including, but not limited to, "how'd you qualify for the finals so fast" and "hey Kaiba, let any psychopaths on the blimp lately." These conversations were held around tables scattered with fancy, expensive platters of food. A small yellow stage lit up the front, where a stiff looking man in a dark suit waited patiently, neither talking nor enjoying the feast.

Roland eyed the various guests scattered throughout the room. To them, this was a collection of competitive duelists, friends and foes alike. To him, each head was another punch on his time card.

A handful of them was out to "save the world," as they put it. Similarly, it was apparent that some were out to enslave the world - or rule it - or whatever nonsense their teenage free time could think up. He checked his watch, realizing how slow this hour was ticking by. There wasn't going to be anytime for a break until this first round of preliminaries had finished.

Roland's sunglass-covered eyes drifted over to a tri-colored spiky haired teenager. If any of them blew off enough heroic steam to fuel the ship, it was him. He was currently engaged in conversation with a pompous blond woman who refused to keep her breasts inside her shirt edge.

Then he looked towards his employer, Seto Kaiba, standing at the side of the room. Where the center of the party was filled with life, energy, and enthusiasm, Mr. Kaiba's corner was anything but. It seemed like Kaiba sucked the joy and fun out of the air wherever he stood. The pure and rich oxygen he breathed in came out grey and stifling. Although he paid good money for people to stand in that air, so as far as Roland was considered Mr. Kaiba could produce all the miserable carbon dioxide he wanted.

"Hey, what's that hold up?" one of the guests started. Roland recalled him to be a particularly loud-mouthed youth that went by the name of Joey Wheeler. "When are we gonna find out who we duel, Kaiba?"

Mr. Kaiba grunted at that, his arms folded. "You're in quite a rush just to lose Wheeler." Nonetheless, he reached down to to the KC logo on his coat. While the logo looked like a simple dorky fabric patch, the frequency coming to life in Roland's ear reminded him otherwise. It was a transmitter. Essentially an over-stylized walkie-talkie. With a click, Kaiba's gruff voice rang through Roland's earpiece. "Let's begin this now."

Another one of Roland's coworkers came over the line. "Sorry Mr. Kaiba, but only seven finalists are present. Shall I bring up the eighth one?"

"Yes. I want them here right now." There was no need for a radio to hear Mr. Kaiba's orders. His voice was so loud and commanding that it easily cut through the extravagant atmosphere.

"Um… actually…" Hm? "Sorry, I'm here."

Kaiba and his associates paused. None of them were expecting the quiet, youthful voice to spring up so suddenly. In front of Kaiba, a girl timidly walked up and gave an apologetic nod. Even though she was in front of Kaiba, she stood mostly to the left, trying to make as much distance between them as possible. All the while folding her hands together over and over again. Her round glasses fell as she and was forced to fumble around trying to catch them.

She was hardly the picture of a duelist. A round face the round face and bulky scrunchie made her appear less than intimidating. Not just one scrunchie mind you, but two. One at the top forming her ponytail and for some unholy reason one binding up the bottom of the long brown tail. Knit dress, leggings, Bear Paws, there was nothing about her that didn't seem small, and forgetful. A cluttered mess of a backpack strapped tightly onto her back. As far as Roland could tell, he'd have an easier time believing that the thirteen-year-old in short-shorts and extra long legs hovering next to Joey Wheeler was a Battle City Finalist.

Mokuba Kaiba, standing firmly next to his brother, seemed to brighten, "Oh, hey Rena! We didn't see you there."

She let out a meek half smile, tightening her fist around her dress. Yeah, that happens, was what she wanted to say but figured it was just as well unsaid.

Mr. Kaiba rolled his eyes, hitting his transmitter again. "You're lucky I don't pay you idiots to count." Kaiba proceeded to glance her way, this time looking straight at her. The girl felt her toes shoot up, her back muscles tense, and her eyes shoot down to the floor the second they made eye contact.

The edges of Rena's face curled with colour upon hearing his quirk. The heat pulsed one, twice, then started a rhythmic pattern in her ears. The grip on her own hands squeezed harder, and she closed her eye, not darning to lift her head again. "W-wait Kaiba, it isn't their fault, I swear! I was in my room for a while, so I probably wasn't here went they did the count…" Roland had to hold back a displeased wince at her weak attempt to combat his boss's temper.

"Whatever kid," Mr. Kaiba shuffled past her as if she was invisible, sending a sharp snap through the air with his fingers. "Let's get this started." Mokuba gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he followed his brother.

The lights in the room dimmed down, leaving only the spotlight over Roland shining. Well, the spotlight over the stage that Roland was stationed over, anyways. Ryo Bakura, a tiny white-haired boy with the bone density of a newborn, retrieved Rena from her place at the side, and gently pushed her into the crowd of other duelists. While she didn't struggle, it was clear that the pre-teen was far from thrilled to be intermingling with the group.

Questionable glances were exchanged throughout the crowd as the stage opened up. From below rose a grand lotto machine. The mighty jaws of 'Blue Eyes Ultimate Dragon' began to break apart. Lights flashed back on in the room as Roland cleared his throat. "Finalists and guests, may I have your attention please."

Oh, he had their attention for sure. Rena's eyes were sparkling. A few members of the crowd were rolling their eyes. Yugi Muto seemed unaffected by the prop and was already showing unwavering determination. So Roland continued, "Now, the first two duelists of Round One will be chosen by lottery."

"What's the jackpot?" the busty blond woman said sarcastically.

The employee had no answer to her quirk, nor did he care to acknowledge it. "To guarantee fairness, opponents will be selected completely at random. You've all been assigned a number from one through eight. The selector will now choose the first two numbers."

Rena hesitantly shuffled closer to Yugi Muto, pinching herself onto his jacket. Her face was shadowed over hesitation and uneasiness. She hadn't meant to leech onto him; it was sort of… instinct. In this room, with so many eyes looking this way and that, they would only see Yugi. All eyes would stop at Yugi. They'd never see her behind him. She took a step to the side just in case and hunched slightly to be almost completely covered by his back.

Was it actually Yugi… or was it Yami? As long as he didn't look back at her, she wouldn't know. Still, she prayed that the person she attached herself to was, in fact, Yugi Muto. Sometimes the pharaoh gave her the same queasy feeling as Kaiba.

He, however, was certainly too focused to acknowledge her presence. Rena's nerves only grew as Roland explained that the next set of numbers wouldn't be chosen until the previous duel was finished. Obliviously. The low growls of the 'Blue Eye' began to rise, becoming a true roar as the machine came to life. The numbered balls rose into the sphere and began to spin, crashing into edges and each other.

The twelve-year-old's eyes drifted to the side where Ryo Bakura stood. It only took a few seconds for him to notice and give a friendly wave. Rena's coke bottle eyes fixed on him.

"Something the matter, Rena?" the albino said.

She hesitated. She needed to say it. Had to. Had. To. Just say it. Rena breathed in through her nose and closed her eyes. "Are you sure you're feeling up to this, Ryo? You were… I mean… I think…. Weren't you were just in the hospital a few hours ago."

He waved her off with a reassuring smile. "I told you, I'm fine. Really."

Finally, the spinning of the numbers seemed to be coming to an end. The clicking noise created by them crashing together was almost rhythmic now. The great jaws of 'Blue Eyes' creaked open, and one poor unfortunate number was swallowed whole.

"You don't have to do this," Rena replied quietly.

There was a hint of something sharp, even irritable in Bakura's eyes. A flash of something unpleasant. Rena's grapple on Yugi's blazer tightened, and she scooched around him. It was a spark of annoyance, or at least that's what she could tell. Annoyance and… malevolence.

The number 'Blue Eyes' swallowed rolled out of the mouth of one of the other two other two heads and into a dish, where it rolled around the edges. "And the first duelist is… Number Six." On a screen above them, the number lit up, and everyone now turned their attention to one person. "Bakura."

Sure enough, Ryo blinked back to his old self and seemed to look hard at the screen. "Me? I duel first?" Then he laughed, scratching the back of his head, "Who would have guessed."

Yes, who indeed. Yami felt an outward tug and glanced over his shoulder long enough to see Rena with one foot in the air, reaching for her boot. Below her spread of facial freckles sat an unsure half smile. After a few moments of trying to keep balanced, a gold necklace was pulled up from the furry edges of the Bear Paw. Rena's free hand caressed the jewelry and she held it close to her chest, taking in a deep breath.

It wasn't just an ordinary necklace. The young girl's thumb traced over the charm at the every center, an eye. Those who knew it had one specific name for the piece of jewelry: the Millennium Necklace. Her fingers were cold on the smooth surface. They always were. It seemed like the metal of the necklace was always cold.

The lotto machine continued to run, whirling the numbers around its spherical insides. "Standby while we choose the next duelist." Rena's eyes drifted right at the machine as it opened its mouth up again and waited for its prey to drop in. "Please note that the selection process is final." One of the balls hit the teeth of the 'Blue Eyes' and rolled down. "When the second duelist is chosen, both participants must proceed directly to the arena."

Like Bakura's number, this ball rolled around the dish a few times, making the crowd lean over to see who it was. Finally, the number slowed, pausing for a moment before creaking onto its side. It's big, and black print was exposed to the world.

Also like before, everyone in the room snapped their attention to one duelist. Only, unlike Bakura, that duelist wasn't pointing at himself or laughing, but red-faced and looking at the floor.

"Bakura's opponent will be… duelist Number Three, Rena Coasta."

She finally looked up from the shimmering floor tiles to find a dozen pair of eyes on her. Rena's face grew a little redder, squeaked her mouth shut, and looked back on the ground. There were sighs of relief and encouragement from several members of their friends. This is great - they said. It works out for everyone - they said. It couldn't have been a better pick - they said. And Roland couldn't have agreed more - if anything because it got him one step closer to clocking out.


	3. Rena's Diary: Entry One

**RENA'S DIARY/** **[Entry #1]**

* * *

 _Did you know that when a friend... is... gone, it really hurts. It hurts so much… Ugh, I sound so lame. It's like the word 'hurt' doesn't cut it. It's an empty word. Saying it and feeling it are just so different that saying "it hurts" is like an insult._

 _I didn't know that it would feel this way, but I never thought it would... be like this. I mean, when someone in my family... left, I knew that it would be hard. Of course, right?_

 _Family is someone you've known your whole life. They're people that you're connected with by blood. Nothing can come close to separating a blood tie._

' _Friends are different,' I thought. 'You can't pick your family. God picks them. But friends? They drift in and out of life. They're a choice. You don't even have to have friends if you don't want to.' It's not the same. They're completely different. It shouldn't be this hard to breath when a friend is gone. It shouldn't be this hard to move when a friend is gone. Things can always go back to the way they were before you were friends._

 _Wrong. I was stupid._

 _So, so stupid._

 _It won't be the same and I can never go back to the way life was before he broke it._

 _Wait - that sounds so bad. That's really, really insensitive, oh my god. I swear I didn't mean it like that either. Well – I mean, I, uh, I mean I did, b-but I didn't. I wasn't supposed to sound as bad as it came out! I'm sorry, do you get what I'm saying?_

 _...even though you're a piece of paper and you can't talk back._

 _This is literally getting worse by the second - why did I write this in pen. Maybe I can cross that out and try again! Umm._

 _Aggh! Who says 'Um' in their diary?! Son of – aggghh. I should stop before I write something else I'll regret. I can't do this. I can't write. Math I can do. Math is one subject that is absolute. Consistent. There's a single correct answer. Always a single correct answer. And a path to find that answer. Math is constant. It doesn't expect me to change. It tells me what to do._

 _Not writing. I have to make decisions. I have to make the rules. Téa suggested I should write a diary to mull everything over. I hate dairies. I'd hate to rain on the parade of whoever came up with the idea of a 'Diary,' but it seems like a conventional hazard. What a Diary is and what it should be aren't the same things: it should be a way to express, vent, and document both important and menial details in life. Instead it's a time bomb covered in fake leather._

 _Maybe the Diary was invented for that very reason. She must have wanted to know someone's deepest, darkest secrets. I know the inventor is a 'she' because men can function without knowing secrets, but women can't. 'Women don't need journals to steal secrets' I can hear you thinking. Well, I assure you, not all women can talk their way into someone's head. Some can't talk their way out of their own. So a Diary must have been one's sneaky way of doing it._

 _But I had this notebook that I got from him, and Téa said...she said I should do it. That it would help. When she told me, she had such a sincere look in her eyes... and her hand squeezed my shoulders and she pulled me into a hug... it felt so warm... all of a sudden I thought, maybe dairies aren't a bad thing. Maybe I can put this notebook to good use._

 _I remember the day I got it from him. I don't think I'll ever forget. It was a cold, snowy, December evening. Cold enough that you could feel your lips crack and your glasses fog when you stepped inside a building. I remember because that was the day his mom insisted she make us her famous caramel iced swirl hot chocolate, better than the best donut shop. I hated hot drinks. I didn't know how to look her in the eyes. She talked so fast there was nowhere, no how, to intervene with this information, so I just had to smile and gratefully nod while feeling the hot cup burn at my hands._

 _We were laying his den watching a DVD. Yu-Gi-Oh!, he called it. There was always a sparkle in his eyes when he talked about anime. I never really understood why someone would love TV so much, but he was bound and determined to show me. So we had spent the day laying on our stomachs, sharing a blanket._

 _He paused the DVD player as Pegasus summoned a dark cloud from the Shadow Realm to surround himself and Yugi Muto. This was out of character for my friend and caught me by surprise. We never interrupted an anime binge. "It ruins the immersion" is what he'd always say._

 _But this time, with me buried head under a quilt trying to dance my fingers around the hot glass and him with his empty cup, he paused the DVD. We switched cups so no one would know the wiser._

 _Then it happened. He rolled up from his stomach and reached over the couch. I remember the sheer awkward confusion between us, seeing as I couldn't do anything but watch the spectacle. I could see the flash of concentration that came with fumbling around not finding what he was looking for. Then emerged a notebook. It was plain and brown, with little dots decorated into the leather that together formed a flower. On the side was a red strap to hold a pen or pencil, and inside a red ribbon to mark it. I remember the way he nervously shifted his jaw and tightened his lips, nervous and unsure._

" _Merry Christmas, Rena."_

 _Merry Christmas, Simon._

* * *

 _Rena, that's right. That's me. I'm Rena Costa. My great grandparents brought my family over from Italy. Not that I ever learned enough to really understand where they came from or why they came, and now it's too late. That's all irrelevant now. I'm not home anymore. I can't click the leaf or send in DNA samples to find out who my ancestors were or how they got where they ended up. My family always said heritage was important, but in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? So now I'm not Rena Costa. I'm just Rena. Family outings and Italian dinners are so far away from me. Impossible miles away, and I'm not losing sleep over a single inch?_

 _Where am I? I'm in the show, Yu-Gi-Oh!_

 _Let me tell you how it happened._


End file.
